Framed By The Billionaire I Saved

Elara Vance POV:

I was fully prepared to pay any breach of contract penalty. The thought of spending one more minute in their presence was unbearable.

Just as Julian' s face darkened, ready to unleash his fury, a lounge attendant rushed over with a first aid kit. "Ma' am, your arm! Let me help you."

Saved by the bell. I let out a shaky breath and allowed her to lead me away to a small back room, leaving Julian and Chandler stewing in the lounge.

As the attendant gently applied a cooling salve to the angry, blistering skin, I stared at my arm. New burns overlapped with old, faint scars-remnants from years ago when I' d had to physically restrain Julian during his violent night terrors. He had fought me then, clawing and scratching like a caged animal, not even recognizing me. I had held on, whispering reassurances until he collapsed back into sleep, leaving me with bleeding marks I' d hide under long sleeves.

He had always been so careful with Chandler, even in his anger. It was a stark reminder that I was, and always had been, a tool. A means to an end.

The thought wasn't just painful anymore. It was profoundly, deeply ridiculous.

By the time my arm was bandaged, I had missed the flight. I didn' t care. I was about to book my own ticket home when a text came through from Julian' s assistant.

Mr. Davenport has arranged for you to be on the next flight out in one hour. You are expected at the vineyard by evening. Do not disappoint him.

It wasn' t a request. It was a threat.

I closed my eyes, my nails digging into my palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. Then, I relaxed my hands. Fine. I would go. I would see this through to the bitter, final end.

After another grueling three hours of travel, I finally arrived at the sprawling, picturesque vineyard. Night had fallen, blanketing the estate in a heavy silence. I was exhausted, my arm throbbed with a persistent, fiery pain, and a headache was building behind my eyes.

As I found my assigned guest room, my phone buzzed again. It was another text from Chandler.

Go into town and buy me a pack of morning-after pills. The pharmacy on Main Street. Now.

My blood ran cold. This wasn't a simple errand. This was a declaration. A way of marking her territory, of rubbing my nose in the fact that she was sleeping with the man I had spent five years putting back together.

She couldn' t possibly see me as a threat. I was just the help, a ghost she was eager to exorcise. This was pure, unadulterated cruelty.

I let out a long, weary sigh. Arguing would only create more drama. I just wanted this to be over.

So I went. I drove the estate' s golf cart into the charming little town, the pharmacist giving me a pitying look as I bought the pills. When I got back, the lights in their master suite were low. I could hear the faint sound of her laughter through the door.

I sent a text: I have what you asked for.

No reply.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, the small paper bag crinkling in my hand. My gaze drifted to the hallway floor outside their door. There, next to a discarded room service tray, was a small, familiar-looking aromatherapy diffuser and a silk sleep mask. My things. Things I had personally selected and brought for Julian because I knew he couldn't sleep in a new place without them.

Julian suffered from severe insomnia, a direct result of his PTSD. For five years, I had been his living, breathing sleeping pill. I had researched and tested dozens of scents, finding the one blend of lavender and sandalwood that could calm his racing mind. I had sourced the perfect weighted blanket, the perfect thread-count sheets, the perfect blackout curtains. I had spent countless nights sitting in a chair by his bed, my quiet presence the only thing that could keep the nightmares at bay.

Now, all of it-my care, my effort, my sleepless nights-was tossed aside like garbage.

My eyes burned. I blinked back the tears, my throat tight. I set the paper bag on the floor next to the discarded items and turned to leave. I couldn't bear to stand there a second longer.

The door was suddenly wrenched open.

Before I could react, Chandler' s hand sliced through the air, and the sharp sting of a slap exploded across my cheek. My head snapped to the side from the force of it.

"You bitch," she hissed, her face contorted with rage. "Were you listening at the door?"

Julian was leaning against the headboard of the bed, a silk robe draped loosely over his shoulders. He watched the scene unfold, his expression impassive. He saw everything.

Chandler grabbed my arm-my burned arm-and yanked me into the room. I cried out in pain as her fingers dug into the tender flesh. She snatched the paper bag from the floor.

"What is this?" she shrieked, waving the pills in my face. "Are you trying to imply something? That I' m some kind of slut who needs these? Were you going to use this to blackmail us?"

I stared at her, my mind reeling. The sheer audacity of her lies was breathtaking. I had done exactly what she asked, and now she was turning it into an attack.

I didn' t say a word. I just looked at her, my professional instincts kicking in despite the ringing in my ears. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing shallow. She was projecting, a classic sign of deep-seated insecurity and a histrionic personality.

Just as the clinical assessment formed in my mind, Julian' s voice cut through the tension.

"Apologize to her, Elara."

I froze. I turned my head slowly to look at him, certain I had misheard.

He was still lounging on the bed, now with Chandler nestled possessively against his side. His gaze was cold, impatient. "You heard me. Apologize to Chandler."

"For what?" The words were out before I could stop them. My voice was a raw whisper.

He didn't even look at me. He stroked Chandler' s hair, his voice dropping into that low, soothing tone he' d used with me so many times. But his words were like ice. "For upsetting her. Just say you' re sorry and get out."

I could see the triumphant smirk on Chandler' s face. She had won. She had completely and utterly won.

"I didn' t do anything," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of pain and disbelief. "She' s the one who-"

A heavy, silver object flew through the air. I didn't even have time to flinch. It was his watch, the one I' d given him for his birthday two years ago. It struck my forehead with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. The world tilted, and I stumbled backward, my legs giving out from under me. I landed hard on the floor, the back of my head hitting the doorframe. My ears were ringing, a loud, high-pitched whine.

Through the haze of pain, I heard Julian' s voice, thick with annoyance. "I said, get out."

Warm liquid trickled down my temple, blurring my vision. I blinked, and the world swam back into focus. I saw him, his arm wrapped around a crying Chandler, whispering comforting words to her. He didn' t so much as glance in my direction. He didn' t look at the blood on my face or the way my body was shaking.

It felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and was squeezing my heart, crushing it until I couldn't breathe.

I pushed myself up, my limbs trembling. I didn' t say another word. I didn' t look back. I just walked out of the room, leaving a small smear of my blood on the pristine white door.